It trembles if you tickle it or tread upon its toes; It is not an early riser, but it has a snubbish nose. If you sneer at it, or scold it, it will scuttle off in shame, But it purrs and purrs quite proudly if you call it by its name,

I once upon a time tried to use a pick with a guitar. One swing and when the pick hit the guitar the guitar busted into flinders and smithereens. I'll try a shovel the next time.

Copeland. Erin Copeland, Aaron Copeland's wayward granddaughter. THAT was who I was thinking of. She was the one who wrote about Billy the Kid being sweet in an Appalachian spring. She also wrote "Fanfare for the Decidely Uncommon Man" for me after one of our more...interesting...afternoons together. That was in my youth, of course, but now, in my dotage, my hair white with the experiences of a live fully and well led, with a few regrets but too few to mention, knowing full well that my life may have but a few precious hours left to run because I have to go to Boise for the next couple of days, I can pass on what I have learned, the wisdom I have gained by living a goooood life. And I shall, whether you will or no: first, don't try to fill an inside straight and second, never give a sucker...oops, sorry...be kind to everyone, and you will be amply rewarded in the next life and, if you work the scam right, in this one as well.

Ah, Erin Copeland! I can still see your freckles and red braids as we strolled hand in hand in hand that Spring. I can still taste the magic of that first, shy, innocent kiss that so awakened the woman that the girl suddenly became. I still remember you hands clawing at my shirt, still remember trying to explain the scratches on my back to Sister Mary Mary Mary when I returned from that delightful recess so very many years ago. Trying to explain the burning pain I experienced to the doctor. Trying to explain to my mother why I needed all those shots. Trying to find you and get my lunch money back. The Health Department interviews. Regrets, I've had a few, then again, too few to mention. Sigh.

Stilly. Glad to see your back and not giving me any shit for giving you shit. You are a person of non-giving shit-back-wonderfull.With that said....

Part Three.Discovering your body.

If you have or if you will, grow the fingernails on the left side of your body to an uneven amount of length. When you have perfected an even, un-even amount of growth, use the strong right thumb nail to pluck on the nails of your left hand to produce a sound or song to the preference of your liking.Be creative in producing a sound unlike any other.Use your nails to be your guide into the new realm of making music that sooths the unrinquished beast within.Hear your nail music.Glide to the dance.Be the growth of carbonite calcium.Do the nails in a way you and only you can do the nails. Discover the nail music within yourself and dance naked on your porch in front of a million stars and your neighbors. Only you can define the music of discovering your fingernail jamboree.

Ah! Tipped the scale! "Wind on the Bay Festival" (Irish wooden flute and American fife training, concerts, and sessions" and "Irish Clan Aran Sweaters"--find your family's traditional pattern, 500+ clans registered (okay this is for the more gullible who think they need a sweater to be a folk-singer).

. . .and Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly and Ed McCurdy and the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem and Richard Dyer-Bennet and a few others to see if those links at the bottom will switch from the lottery (as is showing now) to folk topics. . .maybe a few instruments as well--guitar, dulcimer, hammered dulcimer, mountain dulcimer, bagpipes, banjo, piano, drum. . .